Peg Bracken, 1918-2007

In September 1964, I was living in Chicago with my then-husband and our 9-month-old son when a package arrived for me from my mother. It was a book, and on the flyleaf she'd written

"With love to Barbara. Happy housekeeping!"

The book was The I Hate to Housekeep Book, by Peg Bracken, and it was terrific—funny and irreverent about maintaining a house, it wasn't the slob approach but dedicated, she said, to those of us who are "random housekeepers." There were chapters on how to clean things ("Stains, Spots, Blots, Scars, and Dueling Wounds") and how to cook things ("Dinner Will Be Ready As Soon As I Decide What We're Having") and overall, how to not take it all--or yourself--too seriously.

I loved it. She made me laugh. I read it over and over again. I bought her other books—The I Hate to Cook Book, The I Still Hate to Cook Book, I Try to Behave Myself (this one an etiquette book) and The I Hate to Cook Almanak—but my favorite was, and still is, the housekeeping one.

I sometimes thought about writing to Peg Bracken to let her know how much I enjoyed what she'd written, but, like so many other things I think about doing, but don't, I never did. And now I never will.

I still get The I Hate to Housekeep Book out to look something up, and every time I do, I see my mom's inscription and wish again that she'd lived a whole lot longer. I wish I'd thanked Peg Bracken for her books; I'm sure I never thanked my mom enough for everything.